


Star Light, Star Bright, the First Fool I See Tonight

by maccom



Series: Perfect Strangers [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 5.0 spoilers, Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Starlight Celebration (Final Fantasy XIV), Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21806524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maccom/pseuds/maccom
Summary: Emet-Selch's attempts to fit into the Warrior of Light's life are thrown for a loop when the Starlight Celebration starts. He is woefully unprepared for a holiday meant for spending time with friends and family - but he has ever been one to rise to the challenge.Partially inspired by the Inquisitor's "what gift do I give Sera" quest in DAI, this is fluff with a small side of feelings. You don't have to have read Mother to follow along, but it builds from where that story left off.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch & Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Series: Perfect Strangers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571320
Comments: 27
Kudos: 127





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pretend astrologian cards are tarot cards because I sure have!

“A beautiful display, wouldn’t you agree?”

Hades shifts slightly to allow the newcomer some room beside him, but doesn’t look away from the festively-decorated tree against the wall. “A touch gaudy, perhaps, but it does catch the eye.”

Count Edmont lets free a bark of laughter. “Gaudy! The entire season is gaudy - from the decor, to the food, to the wrapping on the packages! We ourselves may as well have been minted and decked in sparkles!” He gestures to himself, indicating the heavily-brocaded jacket he’d worn to dinner. “If I stuck myself in an alcove I daresay the children would hang baubles from me.”

“Do not tempt me,” Hades says dryly. “I am sure the decor has never had to dance between protocol and politics with children underfoot.”

“Ah, yes.” The Count turns to the foyer door; a multitude of voices buzzes on the other side, adults and youngsters alike. They can just barely hear a sliver of holiday music over it all, though the quartet has been playing steadily all evening. “It can be quite overwhelming for an outsider such as yourself.” 

He bites his tongue. He has been to all number of parties and festivities, has played host and guest to a multitude of persons - of varying political importance - throughout his lifetimes on the Source and its Shards. The Count, however, knows him only as the Warrior of Light’s plus-one - a guest, by her decree, and what a strange guest he is in this frigid land these Elezen call home. It does not help that the season is particularly cold; just days earlier he’d been hard at work in Amh Araeng, frying himself beneath that ball of fire they call a sun. The radical change in weather has not suited him well.

He realizes with a start that the silence has begun to drag; if there is a single person he has been ordered to impress it is the one standing mere feet away. “You were host to the Warrior of Light, I’ve been told?”

“It was, and ever shall be, one of the highest honours to fall upon my house. In truth she has become more a daughter than a ward - you can only imagine how the trouble with Garlemald has added new grey hairs to my head.”

Unnerved first by the word _daughter_ , and then again by the mention of the empire he helped create, Hades buys himself time by sipping on the glass of champagne he’d plucked off a serving tray. Oh, yes, he definitely wants to tread carefully around this Elezen. “And your sons? They have taken to her as well?”

“Hmm.” The Count takes his own turn sipping champagne, a move that immediately sets Hades’s nerves on end. “One might say they have.”

“Might?”

“I suppose you would say they are fond of her - in their own ways.”

He clamps his teeth together. This conversational quicksand promises to end badly - either when he shakes the truth out of the noble Count, or when he learns more than he wants to. 

She never did tell him who her “lord Elezen” had been…

“Ah, but here we have the esteemed Lord Commander!” Count Edmont turns as a richly armoured man enters the foyer. “Join us, please!”

Hades takes another sip of champagne, eyeing the new arrival over the rim of his glass. The two Elezen conduct their customary greetings as he examines, deduces, extrapolates - 

He offers his hand with a smile full of teeth, secretly pleased as the newcomer’s startlingly bright blue eyes dance between his third eye and his lock of white hair. “A pleasure.”

“This is Lord Commander Aymeric,” the Count announces, one hand on the younger man’s armoured shoulder. “I don’t believe you two have had chance to meet?”

“I have not been so lucky,” the commander says in a voice like rich velvet. His handshake is firm, with a pause at the end that Hades wants to interpret as a challenge. “Hades, was it? Arriving with our notable Warrior of Light?”

“You have the right of it,” he says, feeling a flicker of amusement at the mistrust in this young warrior’s eyes. He no longer takes it personally; dealing with the Scions on the daily has dulled him to all sorts of bad manners. “Alas, she has not told me anything of you.”

The Commander’s blue eyes narrow to slivers, but any retort he wished to make is forestalled as the foyer doors are flung wide. Hades winces as the noise from the ballroom invades his quiet space, as voices and laughter and singing wash over him and persist. Loudest of all are three singers near the doors: two more dark-haired Elezen and his very own Warrior of Light, arms around each others’ waists as they belt out the chorus of a popular holiday tune. The two Elezen he recognizes as the Count’s sons, looking in much better spirits than they’d been at dinner, but his eyes are captured by the Warrior between them. Her cheeks are flushed red with laughter and somewhere, somehow, she’d found a tall green hat to pair with her dark green gown. She looks the picture of holiday cheer, and he - 

He suddenly feels festive.

“If you would?” He hands his glass of champagne to the flummoxed Lord Commander, ignoring the man’s confused protests as he joins the crowd in the ballroom. He watches the Warrior of Light’s eyes brighten when she sees him, watches the Elezen on either side of her stiffen in alarm, but as he pulls her free from their arms and into his own he has eyes only for her. He kisses her, earning himself her laughter. 

“I wondered where you’d taken yourself to!” She wraps her arms around his neck, seemingly oblivious to the crowd of aggravated men staring at them. “Finally ready to join the party?”

“I found myself inspired,” he says, moving them further into the ballroom. He lowers his voice as they settle into a clear space. “I think our secret is out, hero.”

Amusement dances in her dark eyes. “Did you ruffle the Count’s feathers?”

“And the Lord Commander’s.”

“Oh, gods.” She laughs and lets him lead the dance, allows him to waltz her around the room. As they pass the foyer door he spots the Count and his sons, staring wide-eyed at them both. He offers them a cheery wave before twirling her away, back through the crowds.

Mayhap he will enjoy this celebration after all. 

*

Breakfast the next morning is a small, muted affair. Half the hosts and guests are still abed, either taking the time to enjoy a late sleep or nursing well-earned hangovers. The Warrior of Light happens to be in the former category, having been kept awake late into the night by Hades’s own ministrations.

He, however, has taken to mornings with a surprising energy. Before she came to Norvrandt he rarely glimpsed a sunrise - he barely knew the meaning of the word - and after their clash above Amaurot he found himself taking joy in simple things, easy things, little moments he had somehow forgotten.

Breakfast happens to be one of them, and so he finds himself taking a seat at the long dining table. It is mostly deserted; fewer than half-a-dozen Elezen sit scattered along the sides, with generous gaps between each. One or two hold their heads gingerly, no doubt wishing they were still abed, while the others are already tucking in to the massive variety of pastries, fruits, and meats spread across the table. Hades happily takes a seat by himself, loads his plate full of everything he can reach, and digs in to a wonderfully quiet meal.

He is almost done - repurposing his bread into a sort of sponge to soak the last of the syrup on his plate - when a lanky frame slides into the seat next to him. A glance upwards and he meets the gaze of one of the Count’s sons - the elder, he believes - and there is no warmth in those narrow eyes.

Ah, well. He was unlikely to make any friends with his display the night before - nor with his demand to be reassigned to share the Warrior’s bedroom.

“Lord Hades,” the Elezen says, his voice low enough to not carry far down the table. 

“Count Artoirel,” he replies, remembering the proper title and name before he speaks. “A pleasure to have you join me. Have you tried the brioche?” 

“I have,” the newly-appointed Count replies cooly. “A delight, to be sure.”

“My compliments to your chef - and to you and your father, of course. This has been a most enjoyable celebration.”

“High praise, especially from one not familiar with our customs.” The man’s chilly voice shows no sign of thawing. “I hope you do not mind my forwardness, but when we were introduced they made no mention of your homeland.”

This answer has been scripted for him, but it is a part he is eager to play. He gestures to his forehead, to the obvious third eye above his brows. “We thought it apparent, sir - I am a son of Garlemald.” Son - father - founder - all and none, not anymore. “No longer associated with them, of course - I have been working with the Scions for some time now.”

“Are the Scions not locked in slumber?”

He waves the last of his bread at the Count. “Ah, not all! Mistresses Krile and Tataru have kept operations running like a well-oiled machine.” He pops the syrupy bread into his mouth and licks his fingers clean. “A little well-placed oil may assist with all manner of difficulties, wouldn’t you agree?”

The smallest hint of pink colours Count Artoirel’s cheeks. Hades turns aside, quickly masking his smile.

Found him.

“We are eternally grateful to both Mistress Krile and Mistress Tataru,” the Elezen says, his cultured voice suddenly stilted, as though forced through gritted teeth. “If I may ask, how did they come upon one such as yourself?”

“Ah, twas the Warrior of Light who came upon me,” Hades replies. His face is a mask of politeness, of innocence, but his play on words turns the Count’s pink cheeks red. “I had long been yearning to turn my coat, so to speak, and she provided the opening I desired.” He reaches past the Elezen to grab a bunch of grapes from a nearby bowl; he pops them into his mouth one at a time, watching the poor man spiral through his emotions. 

Thinly-masked bad manners are no match for millennia of dancing around these games.

“I wish you both much joy,” the Count says finally. “It is clear you - you inspire her to happiness.”

*

_His hands around her throat -_

_Her knees bashing against his -_

_Light pulsing through her -_

_A word shouted, gasped, garbled -_

_And yet -_

*

“I owe her that and more,” Hades says, finding his voice. “Much, much more.”

When he meets the Count’s eyes he finds them narrowed, a calculating look spread across the handsome face. “I hope your first Starlight Celebration proves enjoyable. She deserves every gift you can find her.”

Hades keeps his expression passive. “Thank you, my lord. She does indeed.”

“We will speak later. A blessed morning to you, Sir Hades.” Count Artoirel rises, provides a perfunctory bow, and leaves without another word. It is not quite to standard - not quite what is demanded - but Hades’s mind is already caught on more important concerns.

Gifts? Does she expect gifts?

*

“It is customary.”

Hades tilts his head, his lips pressed together to prevent himself saying anything he might regret. The Warrior of Light is still abed, though she has propped herself up with a multitude of pillows, wrapped her hands around an old book, and summoned a mug of something steaming to her bedside. She looks the picture of comfort and he does not dare disturb her, except - 

“It is customary for everyone else,” he says, wrapping his hands around the bedposts at the foot of the bed. “Are we partaking in this custom?”

She turns a page in her book without looking up. “Of course.”

“Of -” He counts to ten silently and tries again. “You bought me a gift?”

Her dark eyes flash to him and back to the page. “That is the custom of the season, yes.”

A _gift_ \- what kind of gift? What could she possibly have chosen? There is nothing he needs, nothing he asked for, nothing he wants save her - 

But if she has a gift for him, he must have a gift for her.

He cannot ask. It is too obvious, too embarrassing - why did he not think ahead? Why did he assume they would attend the celebrations and not give each other anything?

Why hadn’t anyone warned him?

“We’re heading back to the First this evening,” she says as he turns to leave. He stops and looks over his shoulder, but she merely flips another page. “G’raha Tia says the Crystarium has a version of the Starlight Celebration, so we will join them for the week.”

A week with the Scions. A week in the shadow of Syrcus Tower. A week spent with lips sealed and eyes downcast, pretending he doesn’t notice her companions’ disapproval.

A week to find a gift worthy of her.

Teeth bared in a silent snarl, he leaves her behind to make a desperate attempt in Ishgard’s markets.

*

The Crystarium has transformed since they went through the portal a few days earlier. Greenery decorates every flat surface; baubles and deep red flowers dangle from the glass panels high overhead; evergreen trees wrapped in velvet ribbons and strings of beads stand sentinel on every corner; wreaths and bells hang from every lamppost. The usual music has been replaced by the festive carols Hades had heard repeatedly in Ishgard.

“Two separate worlds,” he complains, his arms wrapped around a tower of packages. “Two completely different worlds without a single easy means of connection, yet here they are playing a song we danced to just yesterday.”

“G’raha Tia said that’s his fault.” The Warrior of Light isn’t truly paying him attention; she leans over the wares at a nearby stall, no doubt eager to add to the mass of gifts in Hades’s arms. “You cannot blame him for being homesick, can you? His first Starlight Celebration brought so much joy to the First he said he couldn’t help turning it into an annual tradition.” She holds up a pair of earrings, jingling them against the light, before returning them to the table. “I don’t believe it’s spread far from here, however. Eulmore doesn’t recognize it as a holiday.”

“Lucky Eulmore,” Hades says under his breath, though he watches her make her way through the jewelry table. “Do any of those catch your eye?”

She straightens and shakes her head, turning from the seller with a small, encouraging smile. “I can craft better,” she says quietly, so low the eager craftsman can’t overhear. 

“Ah.” Therein lies the root of his problem: what does one purchase someone who can craft anything she needs? She either has the best of everything or can make better than he can buy. Weapons, armor, jewelry, even decor for her distant home on the Source - anything he would give her pales to what she can make with her own hands. 

“Let’s drop these off in the Pendants,” she says, eyes roaming over the boxes in his arms. “G’raha Tia wished to meet with you before dinner - we wouldn’t want you to be late.”

“Oh, no,” he murmurs, falling into step behind her. “We would not want that.”

*

He stands in the Ocular with his arms crossed, watching the Exarch fiddle with a piece of machinery. Some bitter thoughts still linger - Allag was his, after all, and this tower was a piece of his own aether - but he has slowly forced himself to accept Syrcus Tower no longer belongs to him. At one point he’d offered his services to the Exarch, thinking he could teach the man a thing or two about the inner workings of the tower, but G’raha Tia had declined. He knew everything he needed to, he’d explained, and more besides. 

Hades doesn’t want to be the kind of soul that holds onto grudges - not anymore - but something about this Miqo’te sets his teeth on edge. Whether it is the power he holds over Hades’s own life and freedom, or the relationship he has forged with the Warrior of Light, he manages to irk Hades simply with his existence. 

“My apologies,” the Exarch says, finally leaving the machine behind and turning to face him. It is still disorienting to see two red eyes staring at him, still strange to know the face beneath the cowl. “I had hoped that would be an easier repair than it seems.”

“We cannot fix everything,” Hades says with a shrug.

“But that does not mean we should not try.”

The optimism - the continual cheeriness and drive to do good - might be what annoys Hades the most. How can he possibly be so put off by good cheer?

“I have an odd request for you,” G’raha Tia says. “I realize you have been out in the Empty for the past few weeks, but we have a small need of your power here in the Crystarium: the outer shield was damaged in the sin eater attack on Lakeland. While I could have my craftsmen examine it…”

“I would be much faster,” Hades finishes for him. Simple. Trivial. _Boring_. “Point me in the direction of the command consoles and I’ll take a look.” He turns on his heel, eager to be out of view of those disapproving crimson eyes, but an idea stops him. He turns back to the Exarch, watching the man watch him. “Might you spare me a moment for a question of my own?”

The Exarch has ever been a noble man. Whether he detests the sight of the Ascian in front of him or not, he has no reason to say no. “Certainly.”

Feeling at once foolish and naive, he shoves his hands in his trouser pockets and stares at the wall some few feet away. “If you were to give the Warrior of Light a gift, what would it be?”

The Miqo’te’s ears flatten against his skull. “A gift.”

“A Starlight gift.”

“While that is certainly a noble idea, I don’t believe I am the one you should be asking.”

Hades grinds his teeth and stands his ground. “I have no one else to ask.”

“Ah.” It is the Exarch’s turn to cross his arms over his chest. “In that case - while I think it a surprisingly well-intentioned idea, there is an issue I should bring to your attention: our people are already planning to bestow upon her many gifts. I am sure you understand how important it is for them to feel they have a connection with their Warrior of Darkness - even a small gift, opened by her own hands, is enough to brighten our citizens’ hearts.” He cocks his head to one side. “I would not want to detract from that surprise, you understand, or to overshadow it.”

Hades does understand. “Regardless, I am still inclined to give her something more personal.”

“Then I believe others are better-suited to answer your question.” The Exarch turns away, back to his machine, and Hades barely catches his next words. “The Scions will be returning to the Crystarium over the next few days. Seek them out - they should have some few ideas.”

*

He finds Alphinaud first. The young Elezen is the picture of protocol: whatever his true feelings towards Hades, he has never shown anything save polite - if cool - respect. 

“New equipment? New weapons? More tomestones, perhaps?” The boy rests his hands on his hips, watching a flurry of culinarians carry crates of ingredients past them. “Does she like scarves?”

_Scarves?_

Hades keeps his face respectfully blank. “I appreciate the suggestion.”

*

Lahabrea’s puppet sits on a low ledge near Syrcus Tower, seemingly daydreaming until he notices Hades’s approach. Hades watches the man pull his gun from his holster and decides to stop quite some distance away. At least they are in a deserted corner of the Exedra: if Thancred shoots him no one need see the mess when the bullet ricochets.

“Let you off your leash, did she?” The Hyur opens the chamber and starts counting cartridges, his eyes firmly on his weapon. 

“I _have_ been on my best behaviour.”

Thancred snorts in disbelief. “You lick her boots like a good boy?”

Hades’s patience snaps. “No, but I do kiss her ass, and that makes her so much happier.”

The man’s furious brown eyes latch onto his. “Piss off.”

“Happy to do so - as soon as I ask my question.”

“Ask it!”

“Were you to give the Warrior of Light a gift -”

“I would give her common sense and taste in men,” Thancred growls, snapping the chamber shut as he stands. “Get out of my sight, Ascian.”

Hades clicks his tongue in disapproval, but abandons his attempt to aggravate the man. It had been a fool’s hope from the start, but he is at a point of desperation where aid from any source is welcome.

With any luck the next arrivals will prove fruitful.

*

Y’shtola and Urianger arrive the next day; he gives them time to settle in before he goes looking for them.

It is easier for him to blend in among the citizens of the Crystarium now. One of the demands the Exarch had placed upon him had been a change of wardrobe, which the Warrior of Light had whole-heartedly agreed with. Hades had no particular attachment to his robes of state - they tended to drag at him, to weigh heavy regardless of the hour of the day - and had quickly found himself supplied with basic trousers and shirts. It is a blessing, really, to find himself in anything without a skirt.

Now he finds himself greeted warmly by the traders and salespeople of the city, welcomed as one of the Warrior of Darkness’s eccentric band of friends. It is strange to be so touched by those he once regarded as worthless; this, he finds, has been the change which humbles him most.

He discovers the two Scions in the Wandering Stairs, sitting at a table near the railing. Y’shtola sits with a view to the Musica Universalis, her arms on the banister as she watches the people below. Urianger has covered their table with his cards, placing them in patterns Hades does not understand. Fortune telling has never been a magic he has ascribed much truth to, and as such has never made a point of learning.

“I had hoped your path led past us,” the Miqo’te says as he stops at their table. She doesn’t turn to look at him; her long nails tap repeatedly against the metal wine goblet in her hands, the pattern indiscernible and immediately irritating. 

“I will not trouble you long,” Hades says. He pauses before asking his questions, watching the Elezen shake his head over his most recent card. “Not the best outlook, I take it?”

“Thy humour does thee little credit,” the Elezen replies cooly as he gathers up his pile of cards and shuffles them. 

“Why not draw a card for me?” Bait, yes, but he can’t resist indulging his curiosity.

“Nine of Swords,” Y’shtola predicts, letting her wine goblet dangle from the tips of her fingers. “Or the Hanged Man.”

Urianger clearly dislikes both implications, but he assents to Hades’s spur-of-the-moment request and draws a card. Confusion furrows his brow as he drops it on the table. “The Fool?”

“Truly?” Y’shtola spins in her chair, nearly spilling her wine in her haste. “Not reversed?”

“Nay,” the Elezen replies, settling back into his chair with an air of disappointment. He pushes the lone card across the table, as though he has forgotten that his companion can’t see it regardless of how close it is. “Tis passing strange.”

Hades looks back and forth between the two, somewhat bewildered by this unintelligible exchange. “Thank you for the confusing entertainment, but I did have a purpose in seeking out your company today.”

Y’shtola drops her elbows on the table as she brings her drink to her lips, her milky grey eyes meeting his. “Speak it.”

“I am in need of a gift idea for the Warrior of Light.”

Urianger immediately covers his eyes with one hand, while the Miqo’te tilts her head to one side. Her tail snaps back and forth, belying her calm expression. 

“A Starlight gift?” She taps the side of her jaw with one knuckle, dropping her blind gaze to the Fool lying on the table. “Interesting.”

Hades looks back to the Elezen, but he has reached for his teacup and seems content to sip it with eyes closed. The silence stretches long enough for awkwardness to set in; he fights the urge to turn on his heel and consider the entire venture a lost cause.

“Have you tried nipple clamps?”

Urianger spits his tea across the table, covering the surface and his cards in a fine mist. Y’shtola hardly seems bothered as she reaches around to thump him on the back, her unnerving gaze never leaving Hades.

It isn’t that he’s blushing, exactly, but to hear such words from her - to learn she is aware such things exist and that the Warrior of Light may be capable of using them - is new territory Hades isn’t quite sure he wants to wander through. “I - yes. Yes, we have.”

She shrugs, ignoring Urianger’s groan of disgust. “Ah, well. I shall be sure to inform you should anything else come to mind.”

He thanks them both for their time and makes his way - slowly, sedately, not rushing in the least - back to the Pendants. Though that had not gone the way he’d hoped - he would have to let the Warrior of Light know why her favourite astrologian might blush upon seeing her - he has a sneaking suspicion Y’shtola’s opinion of him has changed. Whatever the Fool might mean, it managed to thaw some of the ice between them.

It isn’t the progress he’d hoped for, but it manages to be encouraging nonetheless.

*

The last of the Scions come to him.

He had decided not to seek out Alisaie and Ryne. His bad luck with the others notwithstanding, Alisaie’s opinion of him leans heavily towards outright hatred, of the Thancred variety; any conversation with her involves more arguing than is ever necessary. Ryne, strangely enough, seems the most likely to forgive him, though that only serves to unnerve him in other ways. Her unflinching optimism and heavy focus on _doing good_ repeatedly reminds him that, despite the company she keeps, she is still but a child. Turning to her for any kind of advice feels at once ludicrous and, ultimately, inappropriate.

Hades finds himself a seat in the Wandering Stairs, picking a table near the back where he is less likely to be disturbed. He had spent the morning fixing the Crystarium’s shield - it had been, as he’d predicted, mind-numbingly boring - and finally he has a moment to watch his Warrior at work. She’d been recruited to assist with the final decorations for the Starlight Celebration; he finds it deliciously ironic that she is in charge of placing candles on the trees. Who better to bring light to the far reaches of the Crystarium?

He sees Alisaie first, stalking towards him with a determined, intensely-focused look. Ryne catches up to her a few seconds later, looking scattered and confused as they make their way past the bar to Hades’s lonely table.

Without time to prepare, he can only stare at them blankly as they stop a few feet away. Belatedly he gestures to the chairs; Alisaie looks at him as though he has sprouted horns.

“The Exarch said you want to talk with us,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and resting back on one heel. She juts her chin upwards, narrowing her eyes to glare down at him. “Why?”

He spreads his open hands to either side of himself in a gesture of peace; her expression does not change. “I asked the same question of every Scion - a gift idea for the Warrior of Light.”

Her blue eyes spark with anger. “This world and its people desperately need saving, and you are here wasting my time with frivolity.” She makes a noise of disgust and turns on her heel without a second look behind her.

“Sometimes people want frivolity,” Ryne says quietly, watching her friend depart with a sad look. She turns her gaze to him; though he cannot help feeling off-balance upon finding himself alone with this child, he is grateful she, at least, sees the necessity in celebration. “I have been told all of the Crystarium will present gifts to our Warrior. Will you not do the same?”

“I would have mine be more personal,” he explains gently.

She tilts her head to one side. “Y’shtola told me that you and the Warrior knew each other long ago, but she lost her memories.” It is an overly-simplified version of their tale, but he understands why the Miqo’te would have explained it so. At his nod, she continues, “You should make new ones.”

“Make - make what, sorry?”

“Memories. The Warrior has _things_ \- clothing, armor, jewelry; paintings, mementos, little things to lose in her house - but if she doesn’t remember something, you should make a new memory with her to place it.” Ryne hesitates as her certainty wavers. “I would say something that isn’t related to the war - or the Empty, or sin eaters, or anything like that. _Happy_ memories.”

“Happy memories…” He bows his head. What would be a happy memory? What could he give her that might replace all she had lost? He absent-mindedly waves goodbye as Ryne takes her leave, his attention already drawn into the question in front of him.

What memory does he treasure most?


	2. Chapter 2

The Crystarium’s Starlight Celebration dinner is a finely choreographed dance between culinarians behind the scenes, servers working the floor, and bards keeping festive cheer in the air. Tables have overtaken all of the Musica Universalis, spiraling out from the Wandering Stairs to cover the grounds. Towering ornamental trees break up the space, each hung with decorations and candles, in addition to the decor from the rest of the week. 

The Warrior of Light and Darkness sits at a high table - placed there against her wishes, but she and the Scions had lost that argument by a landslide. The people wanted them recognized, they’d been told, and no amount of arguing would sway them. 

Hades is not with her, as much as she’d wanted him to be. He understands it is not appropriate - not this year, likely not for years to come - and has promised her their own, private celebration.

Whether or not he sits down for dinner, he does not want to miss the spectacle. He has taken a seat on the winding metal pathways that span high over the heads of the guests; from here he may as well be a fly on the ceiling, imperceptible and inobtrusive. His legs dangle off the edge; though it is a dizzying distance to the floor below he does not mind.

He’d once considered himself completely apart from these people, these masses of commoners, these sundered souls fighting against the inevitable - “the god-come-down-to-play” had been his own moniker, yet as different as he is, _he_ is not the one these people will remember. His hero - his Warrior, his bonded soul eight times rejoined - will change this world in ways he could never dream of. 

And she does it with grace, humility, and a smile.

He drops his head against the metal handrail with a dull _clunk_. His hero is not playing by the rules of the dinner: between courses she leaves her seat to walk between the tables, greeting people, shaking hands, taking the time to show she is not just a hero but a real, living being.

One of them, and yet - 

“You love her.”

Hades does not startle - to do so at this height would be incredibly foolish - but it rattles him that the Exarch managed to sneak so close. He does not turn his head, but he understands an answer is expected of him.

“I have always loved her,” he says, pitching his voice just loud enough for the Exarch to catch. It is not a hard thing for him to admit, but he understands how difficult it is for her companions to understand. Had he not tried to kill her? Had he not mocked her, taunted her, pushed her towards a fate even worse than death?

Tempering will excuse only so much.

“You realize her fate will one day take her before Elidibus.”

“I am aware.” He finally looks over his shoulder. The Exarch stands some few feet away, leaning against the handrail with his staff cradled in his arms. The Miqo’te looks down, down at the crowds, down at the Warrior of Light doing her rounds. His concern is suddenly obvious, and Hades understands what is needed. “I expect I will stay here on the First when that time comes.”

G’raha Tia looks up, his red eyes piercing in their intensity. “You would not aid her?”

“I would not make myself a liability,” he corrects sharply. “As strongly as she believes my tempering to be completely healed, such a feat has never been performed before. I would rather not test the truth of her conviction by placing myself where I might do her harm.”

“I see.” Some of the intensity fades, but the Exarch is not entirely pleased with that answer. “As polite and open as you have been - and as obvious as your affections for her are - it is still difficult for me to see you as anything other than an Ascian.”

Hades tilts his head in acknowledgement. “I did shoot you.”

“In an odd, roundabout way, you saved my life.” The words come gradually, as though it is difficult for him to admit. “I had not planned to see what future lay beyond the death of the Lightwardens. I cannot pretend I am not grateful to have this chance.”

There is much Hades wants to ask - about the tower and the technology used to transport it here, about the risk to the Warrior and how much the Exarch gambled - but he knows this is simply a thawing of the ice. If the Exarch decides to share his secrets it will be at a time of his own choosing. Asking him now would only widen the divide.

“Did you find an answer to your question?”

Gold eyes meet crimson; Hades cannot help smiling the tiniest of smiles. “I did.”

The Exarch stills, aware that he will not receive a clearer answer than that. Some of the tension drains from his face as he stands. “I am glad.” He begins to make his way back downstairs, but pauses before he leaves. “Happy Starlight, Hades.”

G’raha Tia has left the walkway and rejoined the crowd below before Hades manages to find his tongue; though his words are whispered into the lonely air his sincerity is no less genuine.

“Happy Starlight, Exarch.”

*

“Open it.”

Hades eyes the rectangular package on his lap, fighting the urge to shake it. His hero kneels on the bed beside him, anticipation and excitement clear in her dark eyes. She still wears her festive green hat, though it has slid slightly sideways, and her beautiful gown is wrinkled from sitting on it. She’d spent a good portion of the night reading tales to children under one of the large pine trees, taking each in turn onto her lap - much to the admiration of their parents and the shock of everyone who knew the cost of that fabric.

“You did not have to give me anything,” he says, taking the package in both hands. “Truthfully - what you have allowed me these past few months goes beyond my every expectation.”

She rolls her eyes, but grins at him regardless. “I know, Hades. I am well aware - and I bought you something anyway.”

Undoing the ribbon allows the simple brown packaging to fall away, revealing the backside of a picture frame. He glances at her, confusion furrowing his brow, but she simply looks at him. Anticipation bubbles in his chest as he turns it over; surprise takes his breath away at the painting nestled on the other side.

He looks at his own face first, at the delicate brushstrokes that make up his hair, his skin, his golden eyes. The artist painted him smiling, a small smile that still manages to be warm. He is dressed simply, in a formal shirt and coat, and as he follows the path of his arms his eyes are drawn to the figure within them. The Warrior of Light is radiant, her smile lighting up her whole face. Somehow the artist had captured that mischievous glint in her eyes, that look that sends butterflies straight to Hades’s stomach.

“Who -”

“Alphinaud does not receive enough credit,” she says quietly, shifting on the bed to lean against him. “He painted you from memory. I, however, had the honour of sitting for my painting.”

She’d sat for him, sat for hours with that grin, with that _look_. She’d somehow found the time in her busy schedule to pull Alphinaud aside and not only convince him to create this, but to put all his talent and energy into it.

“I thought - for your home in Amaurot -” She stops as her own uncertainty filters through. “I know it is your own space and I never intend to intrude, but if you wanted something that is ours, something that might remind you -”

“It’s perfect,” he says, turning to quickly catch her lips with his own. She sighs as the tension filters out of her. “I do want more of you in that space - it was _ours_ , after all. You have just as much right to it as I do.”

“One day - maybe.” She flashes him a quick smile and he recognizes this is not the time or place for that discussion. She looks back at the painting, tilting her head to better see the details. “I owe Alphinaud quite a lot for this - I didn’t realize Tataru had been teaching him bartering techniques.”

He senses there is a story there, but lets it pass. “Thank you. I will find a place for it tomorrow.”

Her eyes narrow. “Not today?”

Gently placing the painting to one side, he stands and pulls her with him, into the middle of the room. His own burst of anticipation and anxiety makes his heart flutter - what if this idea is silly? What if it doesn’t work as he’d planned? He stomps down his doubts and his worries as he lowers his mouth to her ear. “Think of a place that holds great meaning to you - a building, a town, a locale. Any meaning - great or small - and picture it in your mind’s eye.” She frowns but closes her eyes. “You have it?”

“I do, but - why?”

“You have seen the one place that means the most to me,” he says quietly. “I would give you the chance to show me the same - as many as you desire.” It is a complicated bit of magic, a type of teleportation he has not employed for years, and to do so while crossing shards is no small feat -

But she is worth every effort.

“Hold on to me.”

Allowing his aether to touch hers, he pulls pieces, fragments, snippets from her mind - enormous trees all around her, a horizon hidden behind metal, wood beneath her feet - and holds her tight. She realizes his intention a moment before they vanish; he hears half her curse in her room in the Pendants - 

*

\- and the other half on the balcony of a guard tower in Gridania.

She stumbles back from him, blinking furiously as she struggles to reorient himself, and he takes the time to investigate their surroundings. Ancient trees tower above them, nearly covering the dark sky far above, but the horizon is indeed blocked by a metal construction cutting the land in two.

“Baelsar’s Wall,” he murmurs, recognizing it at once. He raises an eyebrow. “What thought brought us here?”

“Old friends,” she says. She moves past him to put her hands on the railing, leaning against it as she stares at that massive structure. “Two friends, two companions who may as well have been joined at the hip. In a way I lost both of them here - but what I gained…”

“What did you gain?” He joins her at the railing, doing his very best to ignore the fuzzy hat still perched on her head.

“A way forward - and new friends, I suppose.” A gentle, sad smile covers her face. “I don’t know what Papalymo would have thought of where we are now - of the First, and you, and all that has happened to the Empire, but I know he’d consider it worth the cost. For liberty - for Lyse, too.”

He looks back to the wall. “You fought the Empire here?”

His relief when she shakes her head is overwhelming. “Something far worse: a traitor, one who used to be our own. His desire for his homeland rendered him deaf to reason - he did not want a return to the life he knew, but vengeance at any cost.”

“Vengeance…” Hades swallows hard. He knows the price of losing one’s home, of driving himself to return to the life he’d had - but never, not once, had retribution ever been a motivating factor. An eye for an eye renders the world blind - and he could not fault Hydaelyn’s creator. “I never blamed you, you know.”

Her hand finds his. “I know.”

“Next?”

She wraps her arms around him, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Next.”

*

They are back in the snow-covered lands of the Elezen. In the darkness he has no idea where exactly they’ve landed, save that they are outside. She slowly spins in one spot, a grin brightening her face as firelight glances off of her from all angles, as snowflakes land on her festive hat and dark hair. He turns as she does, taking in the sights.

The Starlight Celebration is in full bloom here; wreaths and lights and colourful baubles hang from every window, every archway, every lamppost. A large stone hearth in the center of the road has a crowd of Elezen around it; Hades can smell roasting chestnuts and sweet drinks even at this distance. Trees lit with candles stand beside every door and a flurry of people run through the street, laughing, singing, greeting each other.

“The Observatorium,” she explains, her face aglow with light and life. “We’re south of Ishgard.”

It seems a very tiny place, a small - though welcoming - stop on his Warrior’s map. “Why here?”

“It all started here,” she says, taking him by the hand to lead him down the one main road. “I’d come north looking for an airship - you know the name Cid Garlond?” At his nod, she continues, “Well. To help him required passing through lands long protected by the Elezen. I needed to earn their trust.”

“They are a little notorious in that regard, are they not?”

She snorts. “Had I not uncovered a plot by heretics I think I’d still be standing in this square, performing small favours in the hopes that one day they might finally let me through.” Her smile softens, taking on a bittersweet look. “I met Count Edmont’s third son not far from here. If he hadn’t been the genuine soul he was, I’m not sure I would have ever gone to Ishgard - how many lives were saved because a kind stranger decided I was worth his time?” She shakes her head. “Sometimes power corrupts, but in the right hands it enables something far greater.”

He recognizes her tone of voice and understands why he has not met Edmont’s third son. “What happened to him?”

“I was - I was too slow. Too naive. Too untrained. He took a blow meant for me, using a magic I could not counteract.” Her cold, calloused hand tightens around his. “Never again, I told myself - never again would I hesitate. Never again would I give anything less than my all.”

“Have you held yourself to that promise?”

“I saved your life, didn’t I?” She tugs him towards the town wall, past the roaring bonfire and the crowds. Outside the eastern gate they enter a land of soft silence and fresh snow; he can still hear the townspeople on the other side of the wall, but they are muffled and distant. Within a nearby copse he spots an old, half-melted snowman, still wearing a frayed scarf and two coal buttons. Hades pauses as his hero bends at the waist, scooping up a handful of snow, and stares at her in confusion as she drops the cold ball in his hands.

“What is this?”

Even in the dark he can make out that glint in her eyes. “This is also where I learned about snowballs.”

“Snowballs?” He stands agape as she bends down to collect her own pile of freezing snow, pats and rounds it into a sphere, and then lobs it up the hill at the snowman. It splatters across his crooked face, utterly harmless.

“Snowballs,” she agrees with a nod. “Go on.”

His gaze shifts from the snowman, to the cold ball in his hand, and finally to her. Her eyes widen and she takes a step back, her hands in front of her chest as she starts to shake her head.

“No,” she says. “Don’t you _dare_. Put that do--” She shrieks as his snowball catches her right in the stomach, but he ducks behind a snowy boulder before she can retaliate. “Get back here, Ascian!”

“Truce!” he calls from behind his rock, even as he builds himself a small artillery. He works as quickly as he can, but -

“Ha!” 

Freezing wetness slides down his neck and the back of his shirt as she dumps snow over his head; the yowl that escapes him echoes off the mountains. Forcing air into his lungs as every muscle contracts, he spins around to find her. She has already run off laughing, scurrying away from him as quickly as she can, but a touch of magic is all he needs - his magical “hands” catch her ankles before she gets very far. She goes down cursing in a cloud of fresh powder and he crawls over her as she flips onto her back.

“What a surprise - the Ascian plays dirty!”

“You like it,” he says, sitting gently on her stomach as he pins her wrists over her head. He shakes out his shoulders, knocking loose some of the snow still clinging under his shirt. “Truce?”

The fire in her eyes does strange things to his breathing, but she nods. “For now.”

“For now?” he repeats, his voice the sound of innocence incarnate. 

“Let me up, villain.”

He stands and offers her a hand; he does not dare laugh as she pushes it aside and levers herself up without help. Snow covers her gown, mats her hair, powders her skin - she shakes it free, her glare smouldering in his direction.

“Where to next?”

*

His laughter dies in his chest as he takes in the sickly green and brown clouds, as his eyes adjust to the neon green and blue lights spinning through the sky, to the metal and machinery floating around them.

“Azys Lla,” she says, but he would’ve known without her help. Though he has no idea how many years it has been since he helped set this island afloat in the sky, he will always recognize this place.

As tempting as it is to let his feet wander, he follows her down the golden walkway, through the constantly spinning tunnel of green and blue lights. The drop below them seems infinite; more clouds block out their view of the land he knows is somewhere below.

Her mood has changed. The laughter and fire has drained from her, replaced by a sadness so potent he aches in response. He doesn’t say a word as they stare at that horrendous sky, as she removes her festive hat and tosses it at her feet.

“A friend died not far from this place,” she says, her voice sombre. “She gave her life protecting us from Garleans.”

“Ah.” It hadn’t been him - it hadn’t been his fault - it hadn’t been anything he had any hand in - 

But he knows what he created spiraled far beyond his reach. This, too, he must one day repay.

“She was like me,” she continues. “Chosen by Hydaelyn - but she wasn’t _really_ like me, was she? She wasn’t what I am.”

“No,” he says quietly, watching her face. “There is only you.”

A sad smile slides across her face, there one second and gone the next. “Chosen, and yet -” She pauses and looks behind them, towards the massive Flagship he knows still floats in the center of Azys Lla. “I fought a man here, an archbishop crazed with power. At the very end, right before he died, he looked at me like - like I was something he’d never seen before. A man who turned himself and his followers into primals, and he believed _me_ a monster.”

His hands are around her cheeks before she finishes uttering the word, pulling her gaze up to his. Her dark eyes are stormy, worried, bright with tears, and his chest hurts with the pain she must have felt. “You are not a monster.”

“Says the villain,” she whispers.

“Does that not give me enough authority on the subject?” he snaps, and then winces as he considers the impact of those words. “He was on the wrong side - of course he viewed you as something horrific. You ended his hopes and dreams, but that does not mean they were _good_ hopes and dreams.” He lowers his voice. “ _I am a monster_ \- for everything I have done, and for every echo that continues to ripple to this day. You, my hero, are not that.”

“You were tempered,” she argues, but he interrupts her.

“You cannot have it both ways - I am the villain and the monster, or I am neither. _I_ know what I am - and you, in your heart of hearts, know that man feared you because he stood to lose everything he did not deserve. The righteous stand, my hero, and you are on their side.”

She buries her face in his chest. He gives her a few minutes, his heart aching, before he leans down to whisper, “Next?”

*

They stand on the curtain wall of a sunken castle; water pours down to them and past them through multiple breaches in the stone. Red and green roof tiles peak out beneath the waves, while golden ornaments still decorate what parts are above water. A giant domed roof rests slightly off-kilter in the center of it all, a hole through one side revealing the watery depths within.

“What remains of Doma Castle,” she says, turning from him to wipe her eyes. “A moment, please.”

He gives her that and more, sticking his hands in his pockets as he looks out over the dark, ruined mass in front of him. There is barely any light to see by, only a looming moon creating silver reflections on the steadily moving water, but the destruction is absolute. 

“Who died here?” he asks quietly, steeling himself to her answer.

“None of mine,” she replies. She leans heavily against him. “The heir to Doma realized the only way we could win the war was to destroy his family’s castle - to topple the power within, bringing down Garlean rule utterly and completely.” He feels her shake her head against him. “I thought him mad - desperate to prove himself, perhaps, but in the end he was right: Doma is not just a building.”

He narrows his eyes, attempting to discern the lesson she has for him here. “Sacrifice is needed?”

“Sometimes, but at the end of the day you must always keep in mind why we fight.”

“For the people.”

“Yes.” She stands on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “He sunk his birthright because he knew it was the path that would save the most lives. Anything and everything, for them. No matter the cost.”

“Not for vengeance,” he says quietly, eyes wandering over the shadowy depths. The traitor, the heretics, the archbishop - they would not have done this. “Or faith, or power - but for the people he had sworn to protect.”

“Yes,” she whispers. Her arms suddenly wrap around him. “One more place, please.”

He holds onto her and gently kisses the top of her head. “One more.”

*

The lights and sounds catch him completely off-guard. He backs away from her, blinking furiously as his eyes slowly adjust, as his ears begin to make sense of the cacophony around him. He tilts his head back, narrowing his eyes at the enormous Aetheryte in front of him. Smaller lights brighten the ground at his feet, but the open, cloudless sky stretches on forever above him. Stars sparkle far overhead, distant little reminders that he is much smaller than he thinks.

“Limsa Lominsa,” she announces. He turns to find her standing a few feet back; she nods her head in the direction of a path leading away. “Where my story began.”

He follows her away from the crowds, into a tunnel and up a flight of winding stairs. Holiday decor greets them even here, more greenery and red ribbons, more lights and sparkling tinsel. She leads him into a round open space, with tables and chairs and a bar on one side. A Hyur behind the counter calls out to her and she immediately diverts to him.

“Baderon!” she says. “It has been far too long.”

“Ye’ve taken to wanderin’ through strange lands, lass,” he says, humour dancing in his eyes even as he shakes his head. His hands are busy with a mug and towel, but he puts them down to lean across the counter. “Yer keepin’ safe? Keepin’ away from them Imperial bastards?”

Her dark eyes slide to Hades. “Mostly.”

“Mostly!” Baderon frowns. “Watch yerself, eh? Tough times on the ‘orizon - don’t ye go invitin’ trouble!”

“Trouble tends to find me whether I ask for it or not,” she says with a laugh. She waves farewell to the innkeep, who nods to her before letting his disapproving gaze roam over Hades, lingering on the third eye in his forehead.

“I don’t believe he likes me,” Hades whispers to her as they make their way through a giant archway, out to a high and open walkway. “Too much of an Imperial bastard.”

“Perhaps, but you’re _my_ Imperial bastard.” She stops them at the edge of the walkway, overlooking lower levels and the deep, deep water below. Voices carry up to them, cheers and laughter and even a few slurred carols. “Though I have my house in Shirogane and my room in the Count’s manor, this will always feel like home.” Her eyes roam over the scene in front of them, taking in the lights and the sea, and he finally begins to understand her love for Kholusia - and her dislike of Eulmore. “I used to stay in Baderon’s inn every night. I couldn’t afford an apartment and he was generous enough to let me have the room for very little, but even with a proper bed it was sometimes hard to sleep. I’d come out here, to this very spot, and think about my adventures - my worries - my plans for the future.” She snorts. “It seems silly now, thinking about back then. I’d wonder where I’d find the gil for tomorrow’s breakfast, or whether Y’shtola was worth trusting, or if my Carbuncle really liked me.” 

He eyes her conjuring staff. “I take it the Carbuncle proved unfaithful?”

She elbows him gently and he snorts with laughter. “It was a different time - a _smaller_ time, if that makes sense. The world didn’t feel so wide. Home was a single place, a bed to fall into, and to dream of anything more felt as distant as the stars.”

“And now?”

“Now - now I know better. The world is _enormous_ , and I have friends scattered throughout. From Baderon here, to Count Edmont in Ishgard, Lyse and Raubahn in the Lochs, Hien and Yugiri in Doma, the Scions on the First - and so, so many more besides. Home is not a single place - not the building I own or the beds I rent, but a feeling, a space where I am welcome to rest - a space where I can be myself without walls or restrictions. Without masks.”

Her last two words hit him hard. The majority of his life has been behind a mask - even before the Final Days, before the Sundering, before Zodiark and Hydaelyn and everything that came after. To have a chance to truly be himself is simultaneously strange and terrifying - as she must surely understand. Though the face he wears now is one he sculpted himself, it is as close a match to the one he was born with as he’s ever worn.

She turns to him. “I’m not sure what you hoped I would show you tonight, but I’m glad you gave me the chance.”

“It was a mixture of two ideas,” he admits. “On the one hand I wanted to create new memories, new adventures involving both of us - but I realized I know very little about what you’ve done. I _could_ have read one of the many books about you -” She groans and covers her face with her hands, “- but I wanted you to choose the places that meant the most.”

“Lessons learned and friends lost,” she murmurs, dropping her hands to her sides. “I suppose I could have chosen cheerier venues.”

“No.” He turns to her and wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her close to him. “I did not expect a fairy tale.”

“Ah, but what about a happy ending?”

“One day, maybe - when this villain has earned it.” He rests his forehead against hers. “Shall we return home?”

Her palm covers his cheek. “Home is wherever you are.” His throat tightens as gratitude chokes him, though he still manages to catch her next quiet words. “But a _bed_ \- I would not say no to one of those.”

“A simple enough request.” He pauses before they teleport, tilting his head to catch her eyes. He should not ask - he should let it go - he should leave it for another day -

The Fool opens his mouth anyway. 

“To be quite honest, I half-expected us to visit Artoirel.”

“Say another word, villain, and I _will_ kill you.”

He laughs and wraps his arms around this adorable bundle of anger he is allowed to call his own. Even a glimpse into the life she has led renders him grateful: one wrong move, one friend not in the correct place, one plan not performed _just so_ \- and where would they be? Who would have stepped in for her? No one has her power, her history, her knowledge. No one could do the things she did - 

No one could do the things she will do.

He sends a silent thank-you to every soul who helped her on her journey, every warm hearth and open heart, and gently meets her lips with his.

“Happy Starlight, hero.”

“Happy Starlight, Hades.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully 5.2 brings some Ascian lore so I can delve back into these two, but for now I might dabble in some other sandboxes :)
> 
> Happy Holidays, and thank you for indulging me in this long, festive fluff!


End file.
